Archives

I guess I should have mentioned that Mia liked the pool, sort of. She wasn't too sure of it at first, but she warmed up to it once we broke out the toys and she figured out that she could splash. She didn't even get upset when her face got dunked or when I made her wear her hat. I think her favorite part though was when I took her into the deeper water of the main pool and jumped around with her.

I looked pretty hot in my bathing suit, if I do say so myself. Provided that I remembered to suck in my stomach. I just wish there were a way to suck in your thighs.

Today we are off to the zoo, so brace yourselves for almost unbearably cute shots of Mia marveling at the baby panda and the gorillas and the hot dog vendor and random bits of trash in the bushes. She's easily impressed. I've been teaching her about the animals for a couple of days now, so I expect her to be able to identify each one by making the appropriate animal noise: trumpeting for elephants, barking for seals, snoring for lions (they are always asleep!), asking for directions to the panda house for tourists. (Get me! I don't even live in DC and I'm a snob about tourists!)

Anyway, we'll be back with pictures and sunburns this afternoon. I know you will all be anxiously awaiting a full report.

I could do Mia Monday today and show you the cute little skirt she is wearing, but tomorrow we are squeezing her formidable belly into her little pink bathing suit and taking her to the pool, and that, my friends, is worth waiting for. So, come back tomorrow for a belated Mia Monday, just be careful you don't get splashed.

And you know what this means, right? This means that I have to squeeze my own formiable belly into my bathing suit. God help me.

We have these really awful neighbors a couple houses down from us. I don't think I've written about them, but Chris has. They are constantly fighting in the street, screaming at each other, screaming at their kids. They like to sit in their cars and honk at whoever in the house is taking to long and then scream at whoever it is when they finally come out. At least once a week there is a huge scene in the street in front of their house, sometimes big enough that is spills over to the street in front of our house. Also, they dump their garbage on the curb and it blows into my yard, which is minor compared to the rest of it, but it pisses me off.

Last night, Chris and I sat on the couch and agreed that we would have to move before Mia was old enough to realize what was going on, because we didn't want her exposed to that kind of influence and also because they peal out at 100 miles per hour after the street fights and I was worried about her safety. I've been pretty depressed since then, because with the housing market being what it is around here, pretty much the only way we could move would be if I went back to work. I would do that to get away from them, it is that bad.

This is hard to talk about. I've been avoiding it because it is personal and also because I don't want to hurt anybody's feelings or start some sort of public feud with blame and recriminations. But, this has been on my mind for a long time now and I don't want to keep it a secret anymore, so I am going to just have to trust that those involved can be adult and put their hurt feelings behind them and see that I really only want what is best for all of us.

Him: We were talking about who we would do in CSI.Me: Why?Him: I don't know.Me: Oh. Anyway, Warrick, definitely.Him: Not Gil?Me: Ew, no.Him: Lots of women have a thing for Gil.Me: Not me.Him: I see that.Me: So?Him: So what?Me: So, who would you do?Him: Oh, that woman who was a CSI but is now a cop.Me: Good choice.Him: Or...Me: Wait, you get two?Him: Or Greg's replacement. She's cute. (Thanks to Jodi for the link!)Me: Ok.Him: But if I were a woman, I would do Warrick.Me: Good to know.

Me: Did you have a point?Him: No.Me: You just wanted to share with me who you would do for no particular reason?Him: Um, I guess so?Me: Never a good idea.Him: Shit.

______________________________________

Hey - how much can I pimp my other blog before it gets really annoying? Or is it already too late?

You are ten months old today and leaving your babyhood behind you so quickly that it makes my head spin. In the past month, you have learned to crawl so fast that I sometimes have to run to catch up with you. You have learned to pull yourself up and can do it with the aid of the stairs, the wall, your highchair, a convenient leg or hip, the floor, or even a sturdy blade of grass. If you are awake, you want to be standing, you can balance with very little support, and sometimes you forget to hold on and teeter upright on your own for a few seconds before gravity kicks in. You love to walk, whether with me holding your arms or by pushing a toy or a stool or the laundry basket along ahead of you.

You eat! We still have avocado as a staple, but in the last month have added pears, apples, sweet potatoes, fruit puffs, cheerios, crackers, cheez-its and goldfish. (You don't eat many cheez-its, but you sure do enjoy them.) You still do not care for yogurt, pasta or tofu and banana is hit or miss, but after three solid months of nothing but avocado it is huge progress. You also, and I hate to say this for risk of jinxing it, sleep. You've have had the napping thing mastered for a while, but now you are actually sleeping at night too. Most nights you wake up twice, but the second time is generally late enough in the morning that I choose not to count it. We finally figured out that we were part of the problem, and decided to make ourselves part of the solution instead. You are much happier, and I am much happier too. Last night, however, was a major exception to this, so we are betting tooth number eight will be here any day now.

You have learned how to throw a temper tantrum if I prevent you from doing what you want to do or have the gaul to take my keys away from you so I can start the car. Your favorite things to do, other than standing, are pulling books off of shelves, dumping everything out of the pantry, pulling clothes out of drawers, pulling your toys out of their baskets, and dumping clean laundry onto the floor. Are you sensing a theme here? We have started to think you may have a career as an interior decorator.

You adore taking a bath. We started giving you baths at night instead of in the morning so that daddy can help, and when you hear the water running in the tub you crawl as fast as you can into the bathroom, pull up on the side of the tub and squeal with delight. You love to play with your bathtoys and to splash and be splashed and to crawl around in the tub until we pull you wet and wiggling and protesting out of the grown-cold water. Even when it is not bathtime, you like to pull up on the side of the tub and look at your toys and giggle.

Your favorite part of the day is when your father comes home from work. You smile and giggle and yell at him to get his attention and crawl all over his legs as soon as he comes in the house. Sometimes we go outside to wait for him, and as soon as you see him in his car your whole body starts to wiggle and if you could I know you would run straight to him.

We spend a lot of time having long conversations and playing peek-a-boo and hide and go seek. You like to sing songs and be turned upside down and thrown up in the air and spun around until your eyes get huge and mommy gets sick. By the end of the day, every square inch of floor is covered with toys or paper or boxes of crackers and dirty socks thanks to your day of exploration. You are learning so quickly now - you see something once and can remember or repeat it.

Early this month, we lost Pixel, and I have wondered how that impacts you. You adored Pixel and crawled along after him all day long trying to get hold of his tail or his ears and cram them into your mouth. I can't tell whether you have noticed that he is gone, that they are both gone, but I hope that in some faint way you will remember them. I don't think either of the cats ever thought having a baby was the greatest idea your father and I ever had, but Pixel especially became very protective of you and very tolerant of your "affections."

Mia Bean, Mia Monkey, Mia Munchkin, you are barely my baby any longer. You are my amazing little girl, and I can't wait to see where this next month takes us.

The new blog is fixed! Fixed! I just posted a fabulously funny introduction that you must all go read immediately. There will be a quiz! And if you fail, you will be forced to repeat the entire blog! And really, nobody wants that. Even if Jodi (hi Jodi!) does claim that she just read and enjoyed my entire archives, I think most people would be driven to drink by the experience so it is best that you avoid it if at all possible.

Anyway, yesterday I got an email from one of the lovely people over at the new gig saying the "IT team" had found and fixed the problem (apparently, they needed to whizzbang the whosiwhatsit and recalibrate the fllibbertygibbet) and my first thought was "yay!" and my second thought was "I wonder if the IT team is cute?" You know I love geeks, right? And nerds, and dorks. Smart is so hott. What I love above all things is a computer geek, because not only will they probably get my Star Trek references, they can also fix my email and troubleshoot registry issues.

I have never understood women who get all hot and bothered over football players or actors - what are they going to do for you? (Ok, I mean other than that and you know it and just have a dirty mind, which I love about you, but that is not the point here.) I'll take a nice hacker over that any day of the week.

Then I started thinking: why do I assume that the "IT team" is a group of cutely nerdy guys sitting in a darkened corner somewhere beefing up their personal firewalls when they aren't busy fixing my little website? Shouldn't I assume that the "IT team" is equally likely to be a couple of women with cute shoes and nicer eyebrows than me? Especially since this is a very women-focused organization and every single person I have dealt with so far has been a shining example of the fairer sex? What kind of modern, feminist, liberated woman am I to automatically assume that anything technical is handled by men?

I was going to make a point here, I really was, but I still find myself wondering if the IT team is cute.

Oh, and thanks to everyone who asked about publishing my last name over at the other place, I appreciate your concern and your looking out for me. You needn't worry, however, as my paranoia is still alive, well, and fully intact and some things are not as they seem.

People, I am so sorry for all the trouble getting to my other blog thing (cleverly linked over there on the right). I have no idea what's going on, and I can get there just fine and so can lots of people, but not everybody. Unless, you all really can get there and are just telling me you can't in an effort to drive me slowly insane. In which case, good job. Anyway, I know it is annoying as all hell, but pretty pretty please with a pint of Ben & Jerry's on top keep trying and keep letting me know if you have problems because that is the only way I will know it is still going on and the only way I know to keep making myself an absolute pain in the ass of the people running the site so it gets fixed.

Anyway, since you were all so nice to try and also so nice to comment when you could get there and since I love you regardless, here is the baby kiss I promised you. We will let Chris stand in as your surrogate, ok?

And here's where Chris escapes the Baby Snaggleteeth (seven of them) of Agony:

But look! Look how cute she is!

Also, here's what she learned to do yesterday. Child will never lie down in her crib again.

Now, don't you all fell better?

Hey? Can you bruise a boob? Because my boob hurts and the only thing I can figure is that it is from Mia using it to push all 23 pounds of herself onto her chubby little dinner roll feet. Also, do you remember back in the day when I never even mentioned my boobs here? Ah, memories.

The new bloggy thingy is up and running and purple. Purple! I had nothing to do with it being purple, but hey! Purple! In case you hadn't noticed, I like purple. You can click the purty banner thingy over on the right there, or you can just click here for the site or here for the feed. It's called "Diary of a Playgroup Dropout" because apparently they didn't like my other suggested title, which was "Adventures in Locking Your Infant Daughter in the Car, or, Trapping Yourself and Your Infant Daughter in the Car, or, Walking Around With Your Boob Hanging Out and Also Never Sleeping, Ever."

You should all go read it immediately, because otherwise you will miss the latest installment in the Saga of the Hotty Pediatrician, and I know you don't want to do that. So check it out, wouldya? And maybe even leave me a comment over there so I know you came by? Please? I'll send you virtual open-mouthed, drooly baby kisses that sometimes turn into baby bites from Mia if you do. And also maybe I will post almost a picture of my smokin' ass. (Ok, I'm gonna do that anyway, but let's pretend it is a reward for reading the new blog and not some sort of punishment inflicted upon you because I have a digital camera and boundary issues.)

Why are you still here? Go! GO!

(Some people are having trouble hitting the link, but some are not. Let me know if you can't get there, would ya?)

The first year of a child's life is full of change. For Mia, however, there have been a few constants. One, boobs are good. Two, napping is bad. Three, sweet potatoes are the spawn of Satan.

Mia has been asleep in her crib for an hour and a half. It's her second nap, in her crib, today. She does it almost every day. Yesterday, she ate sweet potatoes. Twice. Brace yourselves, it is quite possible the world is coming to an end.

Anyway, I wanted to say that I hope you are not all feeling that I am neglecting you, because I totally am. See, we are having people to dinner on Saturday so that means I have to clean out all my closets. Don't ask, just go with it. Also, I am trying to get the basement into shape to be a playroom, which involved moving three large bookshelves worth of books out of the room, which I did all by myself because I am awesome and also got three-plus bookshelves worth of books onto only two bookshelves. Do you think I could arrange books professionally? And finally, remember that thing where I said I was starting a new blog because I am now a fabulous and impressive freelance writer? And then I never mentioned it again? Well, I'm finally starting that and will be splashing the new link all over the place starting tomorrow-ish, but now I have to write something that I don't hatey hate hate and I am having a little stage fright and do you think I could hire someone to freelance my freelancing?

I gotta go clean my laundry room, just in case our dinner guests have a sudden need to run something through a spin cycle.

Don't get me wrong, I'm thrilled that an image search for "spongebob" no longer returns a horrible picture of me that I posted a year and a half ago and deleted a year ago but that the googlebots apparently liked a lot because it was the fifth result or so. But what? All of a sudden I'm not good enough for Google? Those Silicon Valley snobs want to pretend I don't exist? Or maybe Mia's cuteness crashed their algorithms?

Honestly, Google. If you are going to break up with a girl, you could at least have the decency to call or even email. This whole "pretend I don't exist" is just cowardly, even if I did ruin you for all other blogs.

I find it hard to say good things about myself. I know at first blush that sounds like a self-esteem issue, but it really isn't. Partly, I think it is a misplaced attempt at a bit of humility. I can't stand people who walk around telling you how fabulous they are - I mean, if you are so fabulous, surely I will be able to figure that out on my own. Also I think it is that while I recognize that some of my leading characteristics aren't necessarily desirable, they don't bother me. For instance, I have mentioned the grudge thing here before. No lie, if you cross me I will hate you with every fiber of my being forever and ever, amen. I don't see anything wrong with that. It doesn't bother me, and since I am hateful but not vengeful and will never trouble you with my hatred for you, it shouldn't bother you either. See how I justify? Also, I'm rude to people who annoy me (and it takes very little to annoy me), I procrastinate like it is my job and then act all sweet and capable and harried so people think I am really fabulous and working hard, and I have fat thighs.

I can go on and on telling you bad things about me, but when it comes to saying something good about myself I choke, almost literally. And since I am now raising a daughter and since I think it is my job to turn her into her own advocate, I am going to tell you something good about me. In fact, I am going to tell you three somethings, even though I think it might literally kill me to do so. And then, because I believe that women must not be meek and demure, you are going to tell me one at least good thing about you. Seriously, all of you. Just do it - brag, boast, be proud and tell the world (or at least this little corner of it) why you are amazing. (The guys can play too, all six of you.)

Me first, right? Here goes:

I am smart. Very smart. And I think brains on a woman are sexy.

I stand up for myself, I fight for myself, I speak for myself. And I stand up and fight for the people I love.

(Y'all, this is hard! Ok, one more.)

I'm funny.

That? Was strangely satisfying. Now you. Tell me. What is good about you?

As I raise my daughter, these are the ways in which I aspire to be like my mother:

I will believe that she can do anything she chooses. I will support and encourage her as she follows her own interests. I will allow her to set her own goals and priorities.

I will tell her I love her every day. I will tell her she is smart, she is capable, she is kind, she is beautiful, she is valued, she is worthy. I will tell her these things even when she grows tired and embarrassed by hearing them.

I will stress the value and importance of education.

I will not allow her to see me fighting with her father. I will be sure that she sees me disagreeing and debating with her father and standing with him as an equal partner.

I will give her everything she needs, but far from everything she wants. I will teach her how to discern the difference.

I will expose her to different people, ideas, ideals and teach her how to respect the differences. I will teach her to disagree without debasing.

I will let her take the risks that are so frequently the best part of childhood and will hide my fear from her.

I will not yell, other than to cheer her on.

As I raise my daughter, these are the ways in which I hope my daughter will one day aspire to be like me:

I will respect her as a person in her own right. I will treat her with dignity, value her thoughts and opinions, and not always assume that being the adult makes me right.

I will listen. I will hear her. I will keep her confidences.

I will teach her to cook or shoot hoops or knit or run bases or sing or fix cars or whatever else she wants to learn. I will show her that her gender does not limit her actions.

Do you have a chore you hate? Do you, for example, despise yard work? Do you abhor weeding your (huge, never-ending) flowerbeds and raking up all the oak leaves that don't have the decency to fall off the trees in the autumn like all the other leaves do? Are you driven to distraction by the itchy, nasty rash that covers your arms and legs if you so much as look at your juniper bushes? Well then, have I got a tip for you!

Do it all while eight months pregnant. Because as miserable as I was doing all of the above this morning, it was approximately nine million times more pleasant than it was when I did it last year while my belly was generating its own gravity.

I love the internet. (Except sometimes I really hate the internet. Sometimes, the internet makes me really angry and I never want to talk to the internet again and I want to tell all the internet's friends something really bad about the internet so that they all ditch the internet and the internet has to eat lunch alone every day, alone with its really bad hair. But today, today I love the internet.)

I love the internet because yesterday I got an email from a very nice woman claiming to work for a PR company in DC and asking if she could mail me a free sample bottle of personal lubricant. Naturally, the only appropriate response to such a request is "hell yes, you can."

I love the internet, because this nice PR person then Fed Ex'd me a bottle of KY Warming Sensual Mist. I am all about immediate gratification, so it was very exciting to open my door at 10:00 this morning to the cute Fed Ex guy who had no idea he was delivering a free sample of personal lubricant, and also because the PR office is about a 40 minute drive from my house and I love it when Fed Ex delivers things a grand total of 25 miles or so because I think it is such an exciting use of their certainly highly sophisticated worldwide computer and tracking systems to drive a free sample of personal lubricant out to the suburbs.

Anyway, I am now the proud owner of my very own bottle of KY Warming Sensual Mist, which is not even available in stores, so it must have some cache, yes? I freely admit that I have not tried my free sample of personal lubricant for its intended purpose since Chris is still at work and my lover only comes Monday, Wednesday and Friday. (I am currently accepting applications for a Tuesday/Thursday lover, although I would really rather have someone who would come over and clean the bathrooms.) I have, however, read the entirety of the back of the box, so here is my review of the back of the box.

The first bit informs me that my free sample of personal lubricant is "a new, fun way to apply lubricant where you want it without interrupting the moment." See, it comes in a spray. Now, this is handy for cooking oil and such, but I'm not sure of the value of a spray bottle of personal lubricant. I admit that my own experience with personal lubricant is somewhat limited, but I would think that either the spray bottle wouldn't quite get it where you needed it, or that it would in fact be more fun to apply personal lubricant to the desired area the old fashioned, manual way. Maybe it's just me, but a spray bottle just does not scream "fun in the bedroom." Well, at least not when used for its intended purpose.

The next bit advises you to "spray lubricant to intimate area." Shouldn't that be "spray lubricant on intimate area?" Does that fact that I correct the grammar on the bottle of personal lubricant rather than actually using the personal lubricant turn you on? Correcting grammar is hot, right? As long as I am quibbling over syntax, the box also advises "to enhance pleasure, apply to the inside and outside of the condom surface." To me, this seems to imply that you are enhancing the pleasure of the condom.

The bottle also warns that you should "avoid spraying in eyes," which is good advice in most situations. It does not, however, state whether this particular personal lubricant is non-toxic if, um, ingested. Oh, come on! I can't be the only person who, when comtemplating the use of personal lubricant, thinks that this would be useful knowledge to have. (I've told you all about my oral fixation, right? That I sucked my thumb until I was 16 and when I finally quit immediately took up smoking? Not that it has any relevance whatsoever to the topic at hand, just mentioning.)

Ok, I did eventually prime the pump, as suggested on the back of the box, and spray some of my free sample of personal lubricant on my arm. Pros: It does not smell, is not overly greasy, stays lubey for a while, does not seem to get sticky, washes off easily. Cons At close range is less a mist than a rather painful directed stream which I would be relucant to aim at many bits of my personal anatomy, at the distance required to make it misty the dispersal is a bit more than your average personal lubricator would require, after a few seconds made my arm burn in a rather uncomfortable manner, which I suppose is the "warming" aspect but was not pleasant, and appears to have given me a slight rash. (Everything gives me a rash though, so don't judge by me.)

Overall, I don't think I will be using KY Warming Sensual Mist for my own personal lubricant needs, but don't let me stop you from giving it a try. You should also be grateful that I didn't go with my original plan for this review, which was to write an entire entry on the topic of anal sex, but I didn't quite have the courge to do it. Write the entry, I mean. (And no, that was not #3 from yesterday.)

Last night, as we were getting Mia ready for bed, I was lying on the floor and Mia planted her chubby little hands on my hip and pushed herself up into a semblance of standing. She stayed there for a bit and then sat back down and crawled off. A couple minutes later, Chris and I looked at each other and said, wait, did she just stand herself up?

Yup, she sure did. She can do that now. She can also shoot avocado out of her nose and hit the wall ten feet away, but somehow I find that less endearing.

It's audience participation day here in Fishtown. I figured I would ask you to answer the current burning questions of my life, and if you answer you can than ask me to answer one of your burning questions. (Other than "why does it burn when I pee?" because I'm not that kind of girl.) Here we go!

1. My kitchen sink smells like something crawled in there and died. I have tried vinegar, lemons, limes, cilantro and parsley and it still reeks. Any ideas other than scrubbing it out with my husband's toothbrush?

2. I got a sexy new cell phone, because apparently the best way to handle financing your vet's purchase of a new mercedes is to spend even more money and be even more broke. I don't believe in doing things half-assed, it's whole-assed or nothing around here. Anyway, the sexy new cell phone is vastly superior to my old cell phone in that it a) rings when someone calls me, b) holds a charge for longer than four and a half minutes, c) does not suffer repeated nervous breakdowns causing it to delete my address book and claim that I have never made a phone call of any kind, ever. The thing that sucks is that it has really boring ringtones. So, what should I use as the ringtone for my sexy new cell phone.

3. I decided not to post this one after all, because it was offensive. So, make up your own offensive question and answer it, if you wanna.

4. What's better for a teething baby: bourbon, whisky, or vodka?

5. Have y'all ever used any of that self-tanning stuff? Is any of it any good? See, if I go out in the sun for more than three minutes I burn to a crisp, but I expect to be spending a lot of time at the pool with Mia this summer and I have to wear a two-piece bathing suit because I have the longest torso known to man and I figure if I must expose my flabby belly in public it should at least be a more acceptable shade, meaning something between "ghost dipped in clorox" and "angry lobster." Any suggestions? Keeping in mind that I am also blessed with skin so sensitive that if you look at me cross-eyed I will break out in a rash?

Ha, so not. Calm yourselves. Why is it that when a woman says she has news, we all jump immediately to pregnancy? With me, however, it takes an act of Congress to get me to ovulate even when I'm not breastfeeding at a near constant rate (which I am), so I think it would be best if you all just assumed from this point forward that I am not and will not become pregnant. Eventually, perhaps, you will get quite a surprise this way, but it will save you a lot of useless speculation in the meantime.

Anyway, a number of you guessed that I had somehow secured myself a book deal, which I find both incredibly sweet and also hilarious. The only thing worse than me trying to write a book would be someone trying to read a book that I had written. I have neither the talent nor the inclination, but you were very kind to suggest it. I am, however, pitching a children's book based on the adventures of my boob, so if any of you know anybody who might be interested in the project, shoot me an email, yo.

I'm stalling, have you noticed? I've been stalling because honestly I'm a little nervous about this for a number of reasons, some personal and some not. And also I'm worried I have built this up to be a much bigger deal than it really is and you are all going to say "is that all?" when I tell you about it and whoops, still stalling here. Let's just do it, shall we?

I am starting a new blog. I'll be keeping this one going, of course, but the new blog will be done for actual American money for ClubMom. I'm sure I will focus mainly on telling you even more boring details of every little thing my child does and whining that she does not sleep, so really you should all check it out. Like I said, I'm nervous about the whole thing, but I'm also excited. First of all, I am happy that after six months of sitting on the couch eating bon-bons, I am going to start contributing financially to this family again. What I will be making blogging is such a small percentage of what I was making before I quit my job that really, it is to laugh, but it makes me happy to be able to throw something into the pot. I am also thrilled beyond words at the prospect of being paid to write. Seriously? Me? Paid to write? Not even that, but paid to write pretty much whatever I want? I can't even remember how long this has been an unobtainable fantasy for me. Possibly since the first time I put crayon to paper.

So, that's the news. I'll be pimping the link as soon as I have it and I hope that some of you will at least check it out because I am a little concerned (or terrified) that I will throw this new blog and nobody will come and then the people who hired me will laugh at me and demand their money back and also probably steal some of my shoes.

I'm excited, really I am. But I'm also a worrier, and a fretter, and a worst case scenario-er, and a nobody really loves me-er, so all that tends to temper the excitement a bit. And please don't leave me comments that say "God, Beth! Like anybody would willingly sit through even more of your ungrammatical, poorly punctuated, yammerings!" because that would make me cry and when I cry my nose runs like crazy and it just isn't attractive and I have people coming for lunch today. Thanks.